Chocolate Chip Cookies (with a hint of orange)
by smellslikesalvation
Summary: Some days are better than others (like when he doesn't feel the need to strangle the two idiots, because he can't). *Small hint of Sterek, but could be read as Gen. Spoilers for season 1.


_I was rewatching the show, and I thought about what could've happened if Scott had been just a few minutes late. This is just a short thing I had to get out of my system. Warning: small paragraph of nastiness pertaining to Derek's arm._

* * *

Admittedly, there are some days where having both his arms would be really helpful. Like when Scott and Stiles babbled almost continuously for a five hour drive to deal with werewolf business out of state, and though Derek yelled at them to say behind, the idiots somehow found their way to the back of the lineup in Stiles' shitty Jeep. Even at the front of the three car caravan, Derek had to drown them out with the loudest music he had.

He wanted to strangle them as soon as he stepped outside, but they _wouldn't stop talking_.

Issac had tagged along with Scott and Stiles, mostly staying quiet in the backseat of the Jeep. Erica and Boyd were in the middle, playing an intensive game of 20 Questions that Derek pretends never happened.

Driving with one arm was also a skill that he practiced for months after Stiles had to cut it off. Lucky he did, because Derek definitely would've been dead by the time Scott arrived. The skin around the stump healed quickly, and Stiles passed out pretty much as soon as the saw was out of his hand.

Scott came in to what Derek knew looked like a massacre: blood sprayed on the table, the walls, the cabinets, probably on Stiles' face and clothes (still passed out on the floor), Derek's body was painted in it, and his arm was laying flat on the table, blood still oozing out of it.

But driving was a new task he never had to actively think about. Especially when it sometimes felt like he had the use of his left arm when there's actually nothing but air. The stump would react like it could reach out and be an arm, have four fingers, an opposable thumb, that it might be helpful.

Derek wished he could've sewed the arm back on, but he'd been shot by a damn wolfsbane bullet. And not just that, but the rare Northern blue monkshood. He would've died if Stiles' hadn't manned up and just done the job. Derek's extremely grateful, but that didn't mean he wanted the Wonder Twins following him around like literal puppies.

There are a few benefits and downfalls of having one arm.

Inflicting pain: not as threatening with five claws versus ten, but effective (also applies to one arm versus two, but for throwing people around).

Staying fit: surprisingly easy. He's used to doing one armed push-ups (chin-ups are a different story. He's still working on it.)

Threats: can now only use "rip your throat out with my teeth" which gets old after a while. Not like he can say "rip you apart with my bare hands".

Either way, he's going to find a way to use _both _of his arms to murder Scott and Stiles. Derek doesn't remember them being _this stupid_. Isaac, Erica, and Boyd are _normal_ werewolves, Scott's a true Alpha, and Stiles isn't even a werewolf.

Derek doesn't know what he did to deserve this pain.

"I swear to God if you don't stop talking I will find a way to strangle you!" Derek roars at them, lounging on the couch, fighting over something that gives Derek a headache.

Stiles and Scott glance at each other. Then they laugh.

"You... strangle... us?" Stiles gets out between breaths. Scott can't, because he's now rolling on the floor.

Derek glares at them, growls low in his chest, and before they react, slams the door shut behind him as he leaves. He takes the stairs three at a time, too fast to be safe, stopping at the set that leads to the garage. He abandons the thought, out of the door and into the woods as fast as he can without shifting.

He doesn't realize he's at his old house until he opens his eyes and sees the warped wooden floor beneath him. He belatedly realizes he's barefoot. Most of the stuff inside is still there, looters too scared to come within a ten mile radius, but it smells like pot and smoke and booze, so Derek knows people have been here. Probably too drunk or high to realize where they were.

Derek can't blame them.

The house is old. He doesn't know an exact age, but older than his mother. He knows that much.

Mother. Talia. The thought has him clutching the railing as he walks up the stairs.

The swarming halts in his brain, and he can think again. Shaking himself, Derek ascends the stairs, slowly, taking in the ruins he hasn't seen in almost two years. Vines have grown through the windows and even through the floorboards on the first floor.

Derek runs his hand over the door-frame to his old room. Most of the house had been destroyed from the fire. The basement, the den, and one room upstairs were relatively untouched.

His room was gone. He didn't like to think about the fact that not only did all of his family simultaneously die, save for Peter (who had been in a partial-coma for seven years after, so he didn't count) and Laura (who ended up being killed by Peter after he awoke from said coma), but also that he had absolutely nothing to his name. Not a single damn thing except for the clothes on his back and his backpack.

Derek looks outside. He sees the woods, and down below is the rest of the house. He sits on the edge, feet dangling into the open space below him, and just relaxes.

He starts back for his loft after the sun goes down. He doesn't hear Scott or Stiles inside, which is a really good sign, but he smells something really good. Which worries him (even though it shouldn't).

Opening the door isn't a struggle anymore, but resisting flat-out running into the kitchen is. The smell gets stronger as he moves forward. Derek looks around, and his eyes land on the counter. There's a plate of cookies with a note next to it.

He picks it up.

_Scott doesn't think you need them, but I would if I were you._

The note isn't signed, but Derek knows exactly who made the cookies. He scowls as he crumbles the note, throwing it away without another thought. He picks up a cookie, surprisingly warm since Derek doesn't know what time Stiles made them and he doubts it was a few minutes ago.

He takes a bite.

And if the corners of his mouth twitch up the tiniest bit, that's his business.

And when he finishes the plate within half an hour, well there's no video proof that he didn't feed them to the birds.


End file.
